home is wherever i'm with you
by tore-my-yellow-dress
Summary: Even the Concierge of Crime can go on a road trip, right? Post 1x22. Lizzington.


_**A/N- FYI, this started out as one thing and then became something ENTIRELY different like two hours ago. I started the first half of this piece the first week of July and then picked it back up about two hours ago because I'm so darn excited about the premiere in two weeks and whabam. **_

_**The angst is going to hit you like whiplash. I apologize in advance. **_

_**Disclaimed, yo.**_

.

.

.

The little girl looks just like Meera.

From afar, the child picks at the hem of her dress, brown skin offset by the starkness of the black fabric. The expression on Meera's daughter's face is somber and withdrawn, but there's contrast in the bubblegum pink of a beaded bracelet on her wrist, the one she won't stop fiddling with. Lizzie's head is entirely swiveled to the right, watching her pick at the jewelry distractedly. She shivers, and Lizzie shivers too. Langley is unnaturally cold for August.

A hand touches her own bare thigh, and Lizzie startles slightly, broken out of her trance.

Red's concerned whisper, warm in her ear, makes her swallow thickly. "Are you alright, sweetheart?"

"Fine," she manages weakly, pulling away from him, won't look him in the eye. Too much, too sudden, and Meera's daughter is never going to remember this stupid ceremony, and the star on the wall doesn't really mean anything. It just means Meera died for more of a cause than her bleeding out on a dirty club's floor might depict. It's all just sentiment.

"Almost over," Red mouths to her, and she nods.

She stares at his mouth for a long moment, even after the words have died in her ears. She wonders if the CIA keeps the building this frigid because they want to be the antithesis of hell, and she spares a look at a tall, stocky agent across the aisle, eyeing Red with all the distaste in the world. It brings a frown to Lizzie's lips to wonder how many federal badges are currently buzzing in recognition of one of the Top Ten Most Wanted Criminals strolling along and attending a dead agent's memorialization ceremony. Lizzie wonders how safe Red really is, these days.

It stirs something within her, something she hasn't wanted to label with syllables that won't mean anything, because they'll be unspoken. Because nothing that means anything can ever be given to the world, because the world will ruin it.

Red isn't safe anymore. Red was never safe to begin with.

This terrifies her in ways she can't even begin to describe, and everyone stands.

Everyone is leaving, and Lizzie's eyes are fixed on the stars on the wall, and Meera is forever etched, and there's even one on the very end- is that drawn in with _Sharpie?_

Lizzie inhales sharply, through a wave of nausea, spurred on by the dramatics of the situation. She feels so small, and she rises to her feet too, mechanically.

Then, then she feels Red's hand on the small of her back, through fabric and fleeting mental quandaries. Lizzie stops, right there in the middle of suits and assuming eyes. She came with the Concierge of Crime, and she'll leave with him too, and she doesn't know when she became this person. Wonders if she might've been born to be this woman. Genetics, genetics.

He gives her the ground beneath her feet, and Lizzie _feels _it. Right here. Right now.

Red opens his mouth to say something, but Lizzie cuts him off.

There, in front of God, in the CIA's turf, with at least a dozen FBI officials lagging behind in the crowd-

Lizzie leans into Raymond, arms snaking around his neck. It's brief, but it's meaningful. He smells like spicy cologne and cigar and the collar of his shirt is crisp but she hugs him and breathes him in, if only for a moment. It's like proving a point to herself, to others, and that's the worst way to do something. But he just- he smells so _good, _and everything feels strange, like cotton and wool in her mouth, and he-

Red doesn't hug her back, arms fallen to his sides.

He's holding his breath, and his eyes are closed, and Lizzie knows she's done something _wrong._

Dembe's eyes are narrowed when she finally unwinds her extremities and moves away. Red stays still, like a statue. Dembe looks at her. Dembe looks at Red, who clears his throat harshly, a tearing, grinding sound.

"Shall we go?" Dembe inquires flatly.

Lizzie's hands are tingling, and she nods.

She feels so _dumb_.

Her chest throbs.

She wonders if this is what a panic attack feels like.

She can feel other eyes on her, and her alone. Strangers. Stupid strangers, with badges and morals she threw away long ago. She just _hugged _Raymond Reddington, and people saw, and all the fight is gone from her. But why should it make any difference? Everyone already associates her with Raymond Reddington, everyone already suspects something, and-

Red clears his throat again.

Meera's daughter has started crying, somewhere off to the right. People are trying to soothe her, keep her quiet. They tell her it's _okay. It's okay, sweetie. _

Lizzie doesn't realize they are waiting for her response until the moment Red pushes himself passed her, out into the aisle. The jostling makes her stumble. He walks on, unfazed by her stalling, and Dembe waits. Dembe looks at her and Red seems to radiate anger_ and power _with his striding and _she just wanted_ to-

She just wanted to touch him, for a second.

Friends hug when a fellow colleague dies.

Friends _hug._

And for all the times he has encouraged intimacy, goaded the snaking vines of intimacy between them, what could possibly be the predicament with a little physical affection between friends?

That's a stupid question, though. She _knows._

"Elizabeth," Dembe murmurs, but then Red whirls, and he makes his voice loud enough so all the people who have nonchalantly perked their ears and are watching the scene out of the corners of their eyes, who saw her hug him, so all _those _people hear-

"Dembe, we need to leave_ now_-

"Keen," Don chooses that moment to stop Red's words, crosses the room. He doesn't seem to comprehend the air he's just broken, so he offers her a warm, understandably worn, grin. "We thought a group of us would go out and have drinks in Meera's honor, so-

"Yeah," Lizzie finds her voice.

Red's already gone, and Dembe moves passed her then. He inclines his head, and Lizzie feels sick as she watches him leave. Red had sounded so cold, so furious, and-

Fuck.

Thoughts anything but linear, Lizzie bobs her head, takes a few steps.

"Can you give me a ride after, though?"

"Sure thing," Done responds, his hand going to her lower back as they walk along, towards Aram and a few other people she recognizes. His thumb rubs along the same place Red's was just moments before and-

Lizzie struggles not to flinch.

/

The hair at the nape of her neck is sticky with sweat, and she shouldn't have had those four shots. She shouldn't have, and she knows it, but she just needed something to distract herself from wondering what Red is going to say to her. Lizzie has already sobered up from the high of the moment, has had time to process the severity of displaying affection to him, of all people, in a public place. So, she gets it. And she doesn't want to get it.

She's analyzed, and she knows why she did it, all the psychological reasoning, and she doesn't want to admit to God or herself or anybody else that-

Here are the facts:

Red is not safe.

It terrifies her.

Red has never been safe, and she's immune.

Meera's death has made her process the fact that, above all else, it is a fear cold and deep within her, that these criminals will be caught and Red will flee and she, she will be nothing. She will be this person, this contact with the FBI, and Red will think she's safer, will think that she can just be _left _like a puppy or a _child._

He's her ground. It made her angry, in the beginning, that he might have the ability to become the focal point of her world, but Red kept going, Red forced himself into her life, and now she's resigned to the fact they _are basically living together_. She is resigned to being with him in whatever capacity fate turns, and he should understand, he should-

They haven't even kissed, and he's her north star, and it's hilarious when she's this tipsy.

"Pull over," she tells Don, and they're still at least a mile from the safe house they occupy, but Lizzie knows Red wouldn't like an agent with the FBI other than her to know the abode he's currently occupying, and isn't _abode _a funny word, and-

Don does so reluctantly. "Liz, you're drunk."

"Lit," Lizzie says weakly, opening the door. "I want to walk from here."

"Oh," Ressler figures out what she's saying, worry clouding his features. "Okay, yeah. I guess that's okay. Get…home…safe, okay?"

Lizzie takes off her heels to hold them, swipes a hand at the back of her neck. "Yeah, yeah. See you tomorrow morning. Thanks for the ride."

/

He drives away into the distance, and the night is so bleak, a streetlight at the end of the street. Bugs buzzing, and crickets, and let's go home, Lizzie thinks. _Let's go home. _

Lizzie begins to laugh, tears springing to her eyes.

Lizzie hunches over herself from the chortling, bent at the middle, before another sound begins to bubble to her lips, and it's sobbing. She's sobbing and snorting and then-

And then Lizzie pukes, right there on the sidewalk.

/

She punches in the code at a quarter after three in the morning.

The gate opens, and she's got a splinter in her foot so she hobbles up to the stoop of the grand porch, white pillars glinting blue as they're bathed in the darkness. A sour taste in her mouth, and her head is pounding from exhaustion. She's got a key, but she'd left her wallet at home, here, because she came to the ceremony with Red, so-

"Lizzie," Red opens the door, and she almost falls backwards, but manages to catch herself on the ball of her foot. "Is Agent Ressler-

"I _walked," _she stops him, already hears the frustration and disdain in his voice. "It's fine. Stopped him about a mile away, so we're-

"It's late," he goes, and finally, in the light of the hallway, she can make out his features. He looks worried. He looks shocked. "You walked that far for-

"What else did you expect?" Lizzie murmurs harshly, stomach rolling again. "Me to stay at Don's?"

He doesn't answer her, and then she realizes that's _exactly _what he expected, and-

Lizzie's heart jerks. She feels unwanted, unwelcome, like something off the street, but this is supposed to be her _home _now. This is where she's meant. He told her so. He can't just take it back all because she decided to give him a little_ bitty_ hug in _public._

She walks past him, in the door, drops her shoes to the right. "Dembe's asleep?"

Red says nothing, gauging her movements before saying very slowly, no introduction, no pleasantries, "We need to discuss your behavior at the ceremony today."

Lizzie's throat tightens, and she reaches up to rub her eyes, smear her makeup, she doesn't care. Jesus, the way he says it makes it sound like a parent-teacher conference. A good talking to. Lizzie turns toward him, taking in his clenching fists. The foyer is dim. She's exhausted, and, "Can't this wait?"

"No," he speaks with finality. "No, it can't."

"I don't know why you got all weird about it, Red. Everybody knows we work closely together. Somebody died. I gave you a hug. Not exactly a weird sequence of events, if you ask me."

But he's not asking her. In fact, Red is silent. She can't read his eyes, either.

He looks like a statue. Cold. Unfeeling.

"You're not a child, Lizzie," Red says very, very quietly.

Lizzie's cheeks get hot.

She shifts her weight.

She drops her eyes.

It settles over her, what he's voicing. He perceives her actions as one of daughterly affection, doesn't he? He doesn't get it. He doesn't comprehend exactly what she's feeling. Doesn't return the sentiment. Doesn't understand the intentions.

"You're right. I'm not a child," she whispers, keeps her eyes trained on her feet. They're blurry.

With tears, with drunken haze; same difference.

"That's not what today was about," she defends, but the bite behind the words is weak.

She's never felt so humiliated in her life, as when she listens to him pull that particular card from his stack. The meaning behind it, the knowledge of exactly how the situation must look. As if every word she'd prepared, every ounce of fight, has vanished.

"Sweetheart, I don't mean- it's not that- if we were here, alone, it would have been _different," _Red stresses, sudden empathy overtaking his gaze. Lizzie's eyes flit up, catch the worry he harbors, the sincerity. The ice has been chased out by intensity. So overbearing, in fact, it makes the air thrum with tension.

It almost feels awkward.

"It's just not prudent that they see the affection you have for me," she hears him say. It's resigned, as if the admittance won't make one bit of difference, and it won't.

What's done is done.

"Red, what will you do after?" she wonders, and she doesn't know what possesses her to vocalize these fears, but she does.

"After what?" he asks, weariness coloring his tone. "Lizzie, what are you talking about?"

"After all the threats are gone," she explains, low, precise. "After the Blacklist is done. Will you leave me?"

He looks at her a long time before answering.

"There will always be threats, Lizzie."

_That's not answering the question_, she thinks bitterly. He says this with such a nonchalance that it makes her skin crawl, makes her want to take a swing at him, suddenly and starkly. Lizzie throws her head, sets her jaw.

"You'll leave me," she accuses. "That deal they made with you is shit," Lizzie goes on, foul and honest.

"Elizabeth," Red pronounces her given name to quiet her bite, but she's just getting started, really. She paints a picture with her words that spill, unfiltered.

"They'll have you cornered after the last arrest. It won't be safe for you, so you'll disappear like an old rabbit in a hat. There'll be sirens and guns, but you'll be long gone, away to some island, sipping a Colada while they waste tax payer dollars looking for you. The people you want eliminated will be dead, so you'll be free to live as you please. And you'll leave me here, because, well, why would I go with you? What use could you possibly have for me?"

She's got it all wrong, see, but she doesn't know that. She keeps going, even as a variety of expressions inhabit his features. Even as his fingers begin to tremble with emotion.

"I'll be safe, though," she murmurs, almost wistful. "I'll be safe, and utterly alone, and-

"After today, Lizzie, you might not be as safe as you think," he cuts in, almost a snarl, and-

And that's the crux of the matter.

"_Good," _Lizzie shrieks, and then tears fall fresh down her cheeks.

And then he realizes what she's said, and she realizes what's she said, and he looks like he's been punched in the gut.

Red looks positively horrified.

"I don't want to be someone you can _just leave,"_ she gasps, fresh tears in her eyes. "I want," Elizabeth breaks off, wipes the liquid, and Red steps forward, and God, she's a mess. This is such a mess, and-

"What do you want, Lizzie?"

Lizzie stares at him like she doesn't understand.

"What do you want to happen after I'm through with the list? Who do you want to be?"

Here is the terrible truth:

He doesn't plan on being alive for the _after. _

But Raymond Reddington is the worst kind of dreamer. And he knows this.

(But Lizzie doesn't. Lizzie won't know until it's too late; but that's another story for another time.)

Lizzie blinks at him, feet aching, and she knows what she wants, and it's hovering at the door of her mouth. She knows. She knows, and she's looking at it. Her north star, and this is home, and please, _please- he can't go away._

She sees herself, and him, and a blue bikini. Coladas and sweet kisses. Ease. Peace. Him, tanned. Him, smiling. Him, and all the bad men would be dead, and it's not a fairytale if she imagines herself as the queen and not the princess, imagines him as a king. Her king, and Jesus Christ, she's drunk.

"If we managed to knock out the entirety of The Blacklist, I think…I think I'd want a vacation," she slurs, lips quivering. But there's a glimmer in her eye, and she's trying to convey what she _means_, and Red gets what she's trying to say, he does.

They share a loaded look.

Red crosses the distance, and pulls her to his chest.

It's the most assertive he's ever been when it comes to physical attachment. Always waiting for her to come to him. Always fearing rejection or loss, and Lizzie knows she smells like a bar, but he holds her and holds her _tight. _Lizzie exhales with a puff.

"I couldn't just leave you," he speaks into her soft forehead. "Sweetheart, don't you know?"

She says nothing, every cell within her body a live wire, and he pulls back to look her in the eye.

It's dark and humid and her eyes droop.

She wonders if he'll kiss her.

And he does, but it's in the crown of her hair, his thin mouth firm and perfect.

Target practice.

"Go to bed," he says, his breath warm on her skin. "You probably won't remember most of this. I'll see you in the morning."

/

When she wakes, it's to someone pressing something into her hand, something to drink, and she doesn't open her eyes when she sits up and takes a gulp, and- And then she's _awake, _spluttering and eyes adjusting to the light filtering in through the window.

"What the _hell?_" she coughs. The acrid taste of lemon and mint and something else mars her taste buds, and she wonders if she'll puke again.

"It is a hangover cure," Dembe tells her simply, a swing in his tone. "Raymond swears by it."

When she meets his eyes she grunts, shaking her head. "Could've warned me. Is that all I have to drink of it? That's disgusting."

"Had I warned you, you may not have tried it." Dembe cedes, moving to leave. "You are leaving in an hour or so. If you would like to shower before you leave, I suggest you begin preparing yourself now."

Lizzie shoots up in bed once again. "Leaving for where?"

Dembe stops, leans up against the door frame. He shrugs. "I do not know. Raymond says you are taking a _vacation." _

"_What?" _Lizzie pulls on her robe. "We're taking a vacation? Where?"

Dembe schools his expression. "You and Raymond. I have been allotted two weeks of time to visit my family."

"You have family?" Lizzie mutters bluntly, and then the reality of how stupid that question is hits her. "That was rude. I mean-

"You're alright, Elizabeth," Dembe laughs. "I do not see them often, nor do I speak of them. It is hard, in this line of work, to show affection for others so freely. Dangerous."

Lizzie looks down at her hands, swallowing hard. "Right."

"You should get ready, hmm?" Dembe goads assertively.

Lizzie manages a small smile at him as he goes.

Then, she promptly falls back against the sheets with a huff.

/

It's only been two and a half weeks and she's already adapted to all the amenities in this living space. Her body wash is different, though. Tom liked the old kind she used, had practically picked it out for her, and well. It's just not in her to continue on with things like that. Red is a materialistic man, and not shy about it. He can afford to give her nice things, like plush towels and warming gel infused bath mats, and it bothers her right up until the moment it doesn't.

She likes nice things, too. To an extent, it almost feels like pampering.

/

"Where are we going?" she asks him.

He's hunched over a file, glasses perched upon his nose. There's fresh fruit on the island, and she grabs a slice of cantaloupe to outrace the foulness from the hangover cure. Red ignores her, and she narrows her eyes at him, at the line of his nose and lips.

She thinks about last night, and how close they were, and how close they just might get, during this little rendezvous he has planned. It must've been because of her hot mouth last night- hadn't she made some quip about vacation? Nice. Nice, Lizzie.

"We'll miss Shark Week," she complains half-heartedly, attempting to get some reaction out of him.

It works.

He closes the folder and gathers himself to stand.

Exchanges readers for his classic black frames. She can't see his eyes, but the familiarity of his smile clues her in to the tightening in his forehead and cheeks. He's struggling not to grin at her, with her.

"Red, where are we going?" she repeats, almost like a game, now.

"To Neverland."

/

Sam had a habit of resorting to good, old-fashioned road therapy when something was wrong. Lizzie remembers driving down an open road, barely nine years old, with the windows rolled down. Hair flying everywhere, Johnny Cash blaring. Fresh cokes from McDonald's in the cup holders. It was an 87 Chevy, rusty red.

How times change.

Lizzie is comfortable in the Mustang's lush leather passenger seat. The air conditioner is on high, but she's hated being cold since yesterday at Meera's recognition ceremony, so she turns it down a hair. Red pays it no attention, keeps his eyes fixated on the road.

She expects them to turn off at the exit for their old, familiar airline hangar.

They keep going.

Red doesn't make any sign of recognition, so she knows it's intentional. There's no music, just the blow of the air through the vents mixed with the steady sounds of his breathing, and she closes her eyes against the nausea, hopes the hangover cure did its job.

"Where are we going, Red?" she repeats, like some wind-up doll. Her mouth feels wooden.

With those glasses on, she has to put in extra effort to notice the minute movements of his face. It's more difficult when he's consciously remaining aloof, when _he's _putting in the extra effort to evade her. But she can see, plain as day, the worry Red has for her broken down tone.

"It was going to be a secret," he begins, cautiously. "But if you're so adamant to know, we're going to-

"No, wait," Lizzie winces at her own indecisiveness, shaking her head once, hard. "Don't tell me. I have the feeling I'll actually like this surprise, if I give it a legitimate shot. I'm sorry I'm being so finicky. I'll shut up now."

Raymond's mouth puckers at that. She's never seen that expression of feature before.

It takes her a moment to comprehend he's taken aback.

"One question, though," she barks suddenly, and he goes to smile like he knew she couldn't just leave it entirely be. And she couldn't.

He knows her well enough, by now. Almost better than she knows herself.

"Are we going to be driving all the way?" she inquires.

"Straight on 'til morning."

/

She falls asleep against the window, sunlight streaming in and heating her cheek.

Red flips through and finds an oldies station. Once upon a time, Lizzie might've thought of the styling choice as old, but Sam made sure to educate her in Fleetwood Mac to ACDC, made sure she knew the Eagles and the Beastie Boys, from Elvis to The Beatles. The lyrics are familiar enough, almost like an old blanket she remembers but hasn't slept with in a long time. It's the best thing to doze with.

If she's far enough into dreamland, she can almost substitute Red for her father. For a few, scant moments, Sam is alive again. But it's not her dad.

It's Red.

Red, with his hidden meanings, and his spicy cologne, and his spider-like ways of espionage and havoc. He's dangerous and scarily hell bent on changing her life forever and entirely other in comparison to any man she'd ever met before him. She can't remember the feeling of not having him in her life. She knows that reality exists, it just seems so alien to her, now. It really was a North star kind of magnetism, meeting him.

One look and her whole world combusted.

Almost like her world wasn't made of much to begin with, for how easily it all fell apart.

And she doesn't look at Red like her father, either.

Red doesn't look at her like a lost child.

/

When Lizzie wakes, it's almost four in the afternoon. It was a long nap, and they're parked in front of a quaint little diner, and when Lizzie wakes, it's to Red's hand on her cheek, warm and heavy.

Lizzie doesn't gasp, doesn't jerk away. Red doesn't move, either. Not quite a caress, or a soothing pat, or a rub of some kind. He just beholds her like that, waits for her eyes to entirely adjust, open wide and alert. Then Lizzie sits up straighter, and the natural motion makes his hand retract.

"We'll eat here," Red nods to the establishment, voice low and soothing. "We're at about the halfway point. Eight hours to go, give or take."

Lizzie leans her head back against the headrest groggily, feels more well-rested and relaxed than she's been in months. Years, even. In the afternoon sun that streams in through the windows, Red's eyes are green. He has beautiful eyes.

She's never really admired them like this before.

"Waffles sound good," Lizzie comments, running a hand through her messy curls.

"Whipped cream and blueberries on top?" he quips with a wink, and it's amazing how she lets the flirting fall around her, how they just sit there for a moment, smiling at one another like fools.

Lizzie realizes, very quietly, that she doesn't even know what state she's in.

She doesn't care to know.

/

They're someplace small-town and small-minded.

Someplace where a man and a woman with a notable age difference is viewed as other and unacceptable.

They stuff their bellies in easy conversation, the food greasy and carb-filled and delicious. Red's hand reaches over to brush against her knuckles as they're finishing up, laughing about Ressler's recent run in with a spider web during a raid, and then the waitress cuts in, gives them their bill.

Elizabeth Scott hugging Raymond Reddington in public must have been something of a coming out party for them. The thought is a darkly humored one. Because now, he keeps slipping in the physical contact, doesn't shy away from it in the slightest.

The waitress is a white haired woman, must be in her mid-sixties.

She eyes their joined hands like something foreign that she can't make sense of.

"I haven't seen y'all 'round here. You and your daughter been traveling too long?" the waitress, _Geraldine, _her nametag says, inquires.

Lizzie's bubble of bliss _pops. _

Red's expression becomes a mask of complete and utter indifference.

He pulls his hand away, and Lizzie's stomach rolls, the emotion identical to that of when he'd left her at the star ceremony.

"No," he answers brusquely, looking at the bill and pulling cash from his expensive billfold. Lizzie takes note of the fact he does not tip. They stand at the same time, and Geraldine sniffs a bit when they both move past her. Lizzie glances over at the bar, where two older gentleman are turned in their seats to watch the scene.

She glares at them pointedly.

They don't even look ashamed, and in that moment, Lizzie is glad she doesn't have her gun.

She might've shot them.

/

The comfortable atmosphere of before dissipates in the blink of an eye. They're nearly a mile down the road, no radio, and neither have spoken. Red's breathing isn't steady, and she can almost mentally _hear _him fuming. She crosses and uncrosses her legs, turning up the AC.

She's too hot, all of a sudden, and she studies the lines of the road, the white the yellow, the continuity. Lizzie's chest feels tight. Lizzie feels like she could cry. "Red," she tries to catch his attention. "I don't know what to say."

He doesn't turn his head to look at her, doesn't alter his expression, but his voice is gravel.

She almost wants to physically shake the emotion out of him.

"About what?" he grits.

Lizzie rubs her eyes tiredly. "If this is going to be the elephant in the room for the next six hours, please, dear God, tell me now."

"And what am I supposed to say, Lizzie?" he growls hatefully in her direction, eyes flicking over to her form.

"I don't know," Lizzie throws her hands up, exasperated. "I'm still trying to fathom how a little old lady from Podunk nowhere has ruffled the feathers of the infamous Concierge of Crime."

"My feathers aren't ruffled, Lizzie," he corrects her, hollow. "I'm a little disgusted with the mere fact she would even have a reason to think-

"That you're old enough to be my father? You're not. You're not my father. And quite frankly, had I been with Dembe, the looks I would have gotten would have been vastly worse. That's what's _disgusting _about people like _her."_

Red's mouth forms a line, but there's resignation in his eyes.

He has nothing to say to that.

/

"You're right," he says, resigned, a few minutes later.

"I usually am," Lizzie boasts loftily, and he smiles at her sideways again.

/

Lizzie falls asleep again sometime later, the windows down and the humid summer air stuttering in like roaring waves.

"_I've got a brand new pair of roller blades and you've got a brand new key."_

There's a moment of awe where Red really takes in the situation, one that makes his scarred hands tighten around the steering wheel. Mostly for the fact that he's really here, in this moment, with the singular individual whom has made his world spin on a steady axis for the past, oh, thirty one or so years. She's with him. She wants to be with him. Raymond Reddington has been in love before, but this is different. This is like a story of coming of age, and he looks at her, and for the first time in many, many years, he feels like all is right in his dark world.

He's loved her for a very long time.

But this, this is the moment he truly comprehends that he's _in love _with her.

_/_

They arrive at their destination a quarter after midnight, and the ocean is black as the sky.

Lizzie awakes, this time, to the smell of sea salt and Red's cologne. Her nose buried in his neck. She hadn't been tired enough to sleep heavily, so she's startlingly alert. The car door is dinging, and he's- he's-

He's lifting her into his arms. He's lifting her into his arms with a heaving breath, and she wraps her arms around him best she can, eyes squinting in the bleakness of the evening. "Red? What are you-

"Shh, it's late, Lizzie. You looked so peaceful that I hadn't wanted to wake you, I-

There's steps, going up the beach house, and he's at the first one when she becomes coherent enough to dig her nails into the fabric of his shirt and says, very commandingly, _"Wait."_

He does stop, and he looks at her, and she takes in just where her body is places, long legs dangling over his arms, breasts up against his chest. His chest that heaves from the strain, and Lizzie tries to put one leg down, to take some of her own weight. He lets her, and it's so that just one of his arms is supporting one leg, nearly at the thigh.

Lizzie twists so that he is cradled between her legs, her crotch pressed up against him, flesh.

Hands braced at his shoulders.

Lips inches, then millimeters apart.

The pale moonlight lets her see the expression on his face when she throws herself at him.

Clashes her lips against his thin mouth, needing, _needing now, _because she promised herself this. She promised herself this. She promised herself this one good thing.

Red groans against her, responding immediately, without fail.

Their first kiss is something ugly, something desperate.

There's nothing gentle about this.

It's open mouthed and _sudden_, and when they both pull away, it is an aftershock that goes through both their souls, knowing that what they've just done has changed the way they will be forevermore.

He looks into her eyes and sees _want, _and he goes, "Oh, Lizzie," like his heart is breaking.

Maybe it is.

His free hand tangles up in the thick hair against the nape of her neck, and because of the angle the bulge of his apparent excitement is pressed up against the friction of her jeans, the warmth between her legs. She leans in and kisses his jaw with her rosebud mouth, moves to his neck, sucks at his carotid and then grinds her hips in a hard, upward motion.

He gets the idea, his eyes clenching shut. "Lizzie," he mumbles under his breath, his thick fingers massaging her leg. "Lizzie, Jesus."

"Take me to bed," she pleads. "Take me to bed."

/

Red picks her up again.

Red hoists her up around his waist again, biceps and all, and he's glad he'd gotten the door open and their bags inside, glad this is private property with no one around for miles, Florida, God he just loves _Florida. _He's glad for the moon and the way it shimmers off of Lizzie's luscious locks when he climbs the stairs with her in his arms. She kisses him sloppily, moaning a little at the feel of him exerting his strength over her.

Once they're beyond the fifteen steps, through the threshold, he makes a beeline for the master bedroom, and-

Lizzie doesn't even get a good look at the house, that night.

She falls back onto the mattress and sits up quickly, adept fingers diving for his belt buckle, for the button and zip of his slacks. Red's hands fall to his sides, almost like he's in shock at the bluntness of her actions. It's not that she doesn't want foreplay.

It's just that she doesn't need this to be overly romanticized in cliché candles and wine, in exploring one another's bodies- they'll be time for that later. She promises herself they'll be all the time in the world, but right now she needs to know what he feels like inside her. He touches the delicate line of her jawbone to get her attention. For how she's stopped, fingers poised at the opening of his slacks, nails resting on the clothed bulge of him.

He tilts her head so that she looks up at him.

She's wide eyed, like there's blood and a body, and Red helps her, untucks his shirt and lowers his pants, and they don't stop looking at each other, and Lizzie's fingers find him. She wraps her hand around the warmth of him, her fingers long and dainty, and Red's knees nearly buckle at the sensation. She lets her thumb drift over the head just once, licking her lips, and he breaks their unyielding gaze to throw his head back a little and make a sound in the back of his throat, eyelids falling shut.

Lizzie watches him like a species she never knew existed.

She can't believe this is really happening.

Slow motion, the way she lets go of him and scoots back, kicking off her shoes, fumbling for her jeans, for her underwear. He helps her slide them down her legs in a rushed fashion, lacking any kind of finesse. Elizabeth Scott knows he's capable of making sex a show, a complex art, but how they are in this moment is so irrevocably human and gorgeous.

There's normalcy in the way they're still half clothed, the way he leans over her and delves his tongue deep into her mouth while his fingers move within her for the first time. Lizzie scratches the back of his neck, the back of his head, legs spread apart as far as comfortable, bucking at the _sound _that pierces the air when he begins to pump, knuckle deep, into her wetness.

"Please," she chokes out. "I need, I need-

Lizzie squirms and claws at his arm, afraid she'll fall apart before it's time, before he's-

He leaves her body throbbing and empty, and she can feel the slickness coating his fingers when he swiftly finds both her wrists and pushes her arms above her head in one firm motion. Lizzie's pert nipples brush his chest through all the material, and Lizzie whimpers against his mouth.

It means something. It means more than either could have ever imagined a physical act would mean. When Red slides, deep and precise and _perfect, _they both moan, and Lizzie thinks _Red is inside me._ And Red thinks, _Lizzie is letting me_. He is inside _Lizzie. _

The first time is desperate, rough. Then, tender, achingly sweet. All in the same moment. Lizzie clings to him when her orgasm hits her, back arching up off the bed like something frantically possessed, sweat dripping down her temple, soaking her shirt, and Red comes with a shout against her collarbone, pulling out and sinking into the pillow of her breasts. Lizzie runs her hand over his head lethargically in the aftermath, the wreckage of a battle field they are too content to ignore.

Exhausted. Elated.

He falls asleep to the sound of her heartbeat, that first night.

/

Red kisses her on the cheeks at six thirty.

"I'm not leaving without saying goodbye," he tells her when she's half-conscious. "Just going to go get some groceries. I'll be back, sweetheart."

/

Lizzie hears the cry of birds around eight thirty, and she rises like a winged woman, spreads her span and yawns loudly, back cracking in four or five places. She's sore, which is strange, because they hadn't even-

Something smells _good. _

With heightened curiosity, Lizzie shifts onto the balls of her feet and finds her suitcase laying open on top of a dresser. She finds a clean pair of underwear, and then she finds _Red's _suitcase. Elizabeth Scott locates one of his shirts big enough to reach the tops of her thighs. She's been thinking about this for a little more than a while, okay? She's thought about this enough.

The patio doors display a stunning view. It startles her, and she stops in her tracks. The ocean is clear, in the light of morning. Clear and blue and something she could lose herself in just looking at. It makes her soul feel settled, something whole on her tongue, and Lizzie understands, in this moment, that she loves this place.

/

She doesn't startle Red when she pads out into the open kitchen. The granite countertops house an understandable mess. Some kind of breakfast pastry, she figures, what with the flour peppering everything. Red turns and takes her in, dressed in his shirt, _his _shirt, eyes alight with welcome. "Good morning, beautiful."

Lizzie strides forward and he opens his arms, and they kiss like they don't have enough time.

Languid and forceful all in the same moment, like they are trying to crawl down one another's throats, and it's the lack of air that makes them break apart. He chuckles heartily, brushing her hair behind her ear. Then he sighs, almost sad.

"Lizzie, I didn't know last night was going to happen."

"It was never your intention to jump my bones?" She tries to make a joke of it, but then Lizzie shakes her head, all too serious. "My worst fear has always been that you didn't return the sentiment. That you somehow thought of me as-

She doesn't finish the sentence, and he inclines his head, kissing her once, chastely, on the lips.

"Don't misinterpret me, Lizzie. I don't regret last night."

But there's a _but _lurking in his eyes, and she voices, very casually, "I'm still a liability."

"You are," he grimaces, glancing at the clock on the oven. He grits his teeth and leans in to nuzzle the crook of her neck. Lizzie leans back against the counter, hand brushing circles over his lower back. "Lizzie, if anything ever happened to you, I'd-

Red's voice breaks, and then he begins to suck, suck hard, and Lizzie's skin erupts in goose bumps, the skin puckering and bruising under his suction. Lizzie gasps, whines, and when he lets go, she knows he's given her a hicky. "What are you? Sixteen?" she digs.

"Little older," he murmurs wryly, and then lifts her onto the dirty countertop.

He pushes aside her lacy underwear, and sinks down.

/

"Come shower with me," she begs as she tugs at his hand petulantly.

The flaky, strawberry and cream cheese Danishes hit the spot, but he's covered in flour, still, and she wants to get her hair good and conditioned before she heads to the beach and the saltwater. "Please," she says again, to no avail.

"Lizzie, you go on. Come now, do you really need me to help you shower?"

He raises an eyebrow, and the joke comes off as a little flat, but she lets it roll over her shoulders and leans in to bite at his earlobe, tease, all hot in his ear:

"No, I want to wash_ your_ back."

If possible, Red grows even more adamant, but it isn't until Red goes, quite sharply, "Lizzie, I said _no," _that she realizes the situation, and she stops in her tracks. She looks him over with an appraising eye. Lizzie pinches the fabric of his white dress shirt between her two fingers.

She wrinkles her nose. "Raymond," she says his full name, and it does something to Red, makes a part of him twist with satisfaction. It rolls off her tongue in the most loving manner.

"Are you afraid of me seeing you naked?"

He quirks an eyebrow at her and dramatically looks down at his lower half to sway light among the situation, but Lizzie knows his tell, watches his eye twitch, and Lizzie's mouth dries a bit. Her heart aches. "Red, you know what I mean." She pauses. "Take off your shirt."

He stares at her.

"Lizzie," he starts, tries to keep his voice steady. "You're being silly.

"No, I'm not," she continues, voice only half there. "Is it because you think you're not…in shape, or something?"

His cocks his head, like a dog that's just heard something that absolutely confounds him. His eyes narrow tremendously. "Do _you _think I'm not in shape?"

Lizzie giggles a little. "No, I think you're great. Very attractive."

She moves in, wraps her arms around his waist, and rests her palms against his ass. "Very firm, Mr. Reddington."

Her fingers drift up.

She untucks his shirt bravely, and he freezes.

She slides her fingers up, keeps her eyes on his, feels of his bare skin, feels of-

Lizzie inhales sharply through her nose.

"_Oh," _she goes, eyebrows furrowing, and Red's Adam's apple bobs, some stricken look on his face, and she tries to school her features, but her heart breaks a little more, and she opens her mouth but then she closes it again, and.

And then she goes, "I'm okay with scars."

Like she's talking to a child, almost. Lizzie realizes there's tears in her eyes when one slips down her cheek, the sudden onslaught of emotion overwhelming. Red eyes her with such anguish, with such doubt. "It's okay," she whispers, again.

He stands, still as a statue, when her hands move to the top button.

She pops it open, leans in, and kisses his mouth.

She keeps kissing him, and he's crying too, she can feel his tears hitting her cheeks, her chin. Red sinks his hands into her hair and kisses her senseless, and she unbuttons his shirt like this. Each button a chaste kiss, sometimes drawn out, and by the time it's fallen open she looks down at the smattering of hair and scratches her nails through it.

They breathe heavily together, heads down, and just when she goes to push it entirely from his form, he says, "Look at me one more time."

She can't fathom what he means, but she does.

She does, and with every ounce of his soul, he looks into her eyes, and he tells her, "I love you."

"Red, I love you _too," _she cries softly, and lets the material fall back, shrug off his arms. Lizzie captures his mouth again, the light streaming in through the windows of the beach house, and she kisses him hard and fast while her fingers take in the whole expanse of the scar on his lower back.

No, on his lower, and middle.

And upper.

And.

Lizzie gasps into his mouth again, but this time Red goes very still. His hands are at his sides, not entangled within her hair, and he won't meet her eyes. He's looking at something passed her shoulder. The scar is beneath her fingertips. The scar that covers his whole back.

The scar that is not puckered and round like a bullet, not lined and smooth like a knife.

Roughened, like leather.

Charred.

Lizzie takes a step backward, and steps to the side so that she can _see_.

She knows what a burn scar looks like.

In the light, like this, it looks like somebody has made a fresco of Raymond Reddington.

Lizzie's hands begin to shake uncontrollably.

She takes a step back, she can't help it. And then another, and then another, and when her body is pressed up against one of the kitchen counters, her legs won't support herself anymore, and she goes to the floor. Red moves robotically, bends down to pick up his shirt.

He puts it back on, and everything is very quiet, and everything is very still.

She hears the metallic clang of the patio door opening and closing, and once she knows he's not within earshot, Lizzie starts to cry. She sobs, and they rip through her, and she can't help it, because she knows, now. She knows, and it hurts, and she just needs a few minutes.

She needs a few minutes.

/

"Red," she calls out roughly, bare feet sinking into the hot, white sand.

He turns, squinting because he doesn't have his signature sunglasses with him. Before she can say a word, he holds out the keys for her. His voice is detached, husky in the way it only gets when he's falling apart at the seams. "The nearest airport is fifty miles east. I'll call Dembe and have him get you the earliest flight back to DC. I'm so sorry, Lizzie."

Her mouth parts in shock. Her face contorts. "Red."

She puts her hand over her mouth, tears coming thickly, and God, it's sweltering out here, with the sun beating down, and she can practically feel the torment radiating off of him, and-

"Red, _no," _she shakes her head hysterically, closes the distance, and throws her arms around him. He stumbles back from the force of her body crashing into his. She clasps her arms and buries her face into his chest. She can feel his shock.

She can feel it, so when she gets her bearings and has the nerve to let go, she whispers in his ear, over the roar of the ocean, "It's okay to be scarred, Red. It's okay."

Lizzie's eyes are bright and red rimmed, and he loves her, God, he loves her.

"I'm never going to stop loving you," she tells him. "I'll not going to stop."

/

They swim in the ocean naked, that day. It's his private beach, he tells her. It's his right. They swim naked and free of every discrepancy kept between them. They swim and he makes love to her on the beach, and sand gets in terrible places, and they end up coming inside for fear of turning into lobsters, and then, then they shower together.

And she washes his back, too.

She washes his back, and she kisses it clean.

/

The visible stars are by the hundreds, this far out. Shockingly stark, and Lizzie hates to go back to the city, after seeing them this untouched. Red has just got done smoking a cigar, so his mouth tastes like ash, but it's offset by the crispness of the wine they had with their dinner. He grilled steak. She didn't even know Raymond Reddington could grill, truth be told.

But he did, and they're tucked together on the balcony, smothered in aloe vera the rushing of the waves a soundtrack. Words are rendered delightfully redundant, but then:

"When it's over," he murmurs in her ear, and she knows, she knows immediately what he's talking about.

"Yeah?" she prompts, breath hitching.

"This is where you'll go, Lizzie," he tells her, and there's a chord of graveness in his voice. "I'll be waiting for you here."

"Okay," she bobs her head gently, remembering the exact location of this pristine getaway he'd given her earlier. She never took Raymond Reddington for a Floridian.

"This house is in your name," he informs her.

Lizzie gawks, tries to protest, but he silences her with a melding, hot mouth.

"This is your place, Lizzie," he puts his nose against her's.

"I could be anywhere, Red," Lizzie tells him, mind whirring at the picture being painted that far into the future. She can't wrap her mind around leaving the FBI, but she would for him, would if he wasn't safe anymore.

"I just want to be where you are," she says, honesty dripping in her cadence. Raymond's mouth droops at the corners, his nostrils flaring.

"I will be here, Lizzie. I'll be with you. I promise you that."

She believes him. She loves him too much. She kisses him again.

.

.

.

.

.

When it happens, it's like one of those terrible, unfathomable events one only hears about in newspapers or documentaries. It's not something that happens, but then it does. It does, and she's not prepared. She doesn't know how she could have ever been prepared for that kind of devastation. She does not know how so many people keep living, because for a split second, she thinks she's died, too.

And she knows she can't stop running, after.

She does not stop to cry on Ressler's arm. She does not stop. She knows better.

She hears his voice in her ear, and he tells her to get in the car.

And she does.

She gets in the car, and she drives, and she drives, and only stops once, to eat, because he would say _you're eating for two, now, Lizzie. Don't be irresponsible. _

She drives until she hits land, hits solid ground, and the second she sees the rip of the ocean she holds her breath until she's through the threshold, and her eyes close, and she shuts the door, and she opens her eyes, and she can't see him.

She can't see him, but he's here. He's here.

Lizzie starts screaming, and she doesn't know if's in her to stop.

It feels like he's still _here._

.

.

.

.

.

Elizabeth Scott-Reddington slices the peaches diligently, pausing once every few minutes to stuff one of them in her mouth. They're ripe and sweet on her tongue, and the smell of sea salt drifts in through the open windows. She cracks her neck and sets to rolling out the homemade crust for cobbler. Flour forms a sheen layer over the granite countertops.

Suddenly, tragedy befalls.

It all comes in the form of a bright green, fresh and sporty tennis ball.

A beast comes thundering through the open patio door, and just seconds after, something else follows. A messy mass of dripping water and lots and lots of wet _sand._ Lizzie gasps, eyes bulging.

"Oh my God! Zeus! No! Outside! _Rory Reddington get your butt outside!"_

Scrambling for the rubber ball, the five year old manages to corral the Rottweiler puppy back through the door. The damage, however, is already done. Lizzie quirks her lips in a grimace, at once startlingly glad for the tiled flooring. She pauses in her preparation and takes off her apron, moving to hitch her hip and cross her arms at the scene unfolding on the back deck.

The waves are gentle today, and she looks out at the precious view.

She watches her daughter play ball with the new dog, and rubs the scar on her wrist.

She'd gotten the animal for Rory's birthday, half in hopes it could improve security. Lizzie wanted an attack dog, but watching her daughter giggle with the loving animal, she realizes that perhaps she's gotten far more than she ever bargained for. Zeus is going to need Doggy School.

She misses Dembe more than usual, these days.

At that moment, one of those rare, perfect breezes moves through, and Lizzie's hair blows back out of her face. She looks at her daughter, takes in the way the little girl moves, the way her nose scrunches up in disgust when Zeus shakes out his coat all over her.

Sometimes, it feels like she's looking at Red, not Rory.

Sometimes, Elizabeth Scott-Reddington gets very sad.

She looks at their daughter, and she knows that he didn't lie to her, not really.

He's still here.

He's just not here in the way she _thought_ he'd be.


End file.
